


Night Red

by thedevilchicken



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Clothed/Naked, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Identity Porn, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Jonathan is persuaded to attend a charity masquerade ball. McCullum doesn't have an invitation, but that doesn't stop him making an appearance.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Comments: 7
Kudos: 163
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	Night Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



It's been one of the stranger evenings he's experienced over the past two years, Jonathan thinks. 

That's saying something, given the past two years is how long he's been a vampire, and he thinks McCullum would agree on that strangeness if asked. Of course, that supposes the two of them will remain on speaking terms after tonight, which is by no means certain. 

\---

The masquerade ball had been conceived of by Pembroke's new administrator as a fundraiser to replenish their dwindling coffers. 

Dr. Fenchurch was a thoroughly dynamic fellow in his late fifties, with whom Jonathan had worked during the war and whose reputation as a field surgeon was very nearly unsurpassed. He hadn't always been a military man, however; Fenchurch had spent most of his career tending the minor ailments of London's rich and gaudy, and had evidently returned to England with a passion more for charity than for Harley Street. His connections seemed to regard the change with equal parts dismay and delight: on the one hand, _dear Dr. Fenchurch, so noble how he cares for the poor!_ and on the other, _oh, but now who can we trust with Sir Gordon's gout?_ He balanced the two sides of the coin quite admirably, Jonathan thought, and he didn't envy him the task at all.

The masquerade was intended to draw together Dr. Fenchurch's old deep-pocketed contacts and allow them to experience his newfound charity first hand, by contributing to Pembroke's endeavours in treating the East End's poor. The decree had been made that all medical staff not scheduled for duty on the evening of the ball would put in an appearance, and there was supply enough of doctors and nurses willing to spend their night off dressed up and dancing for the cause that those less inclined found opportunities to rearrange the rota. Each time that Jonathan had sourced an amicable swap, however, he'd found himself reallocated to the party in place of rounds, until Dr. Fenchurch had called him to his desk and told him, plainly and in no uncertain terms, that he _would_ attend, he _would_ be charming, and he _would not_ skulk about his office as if he did not himself belong to the very circles they were striving to court. 

And so, Jonathan attended. Though the venue chosen for the event made him moderately uneasy, it was a only very short walk from his family home to the Ascalon Club and he arrived as the party was already in full swing. He passed his hat and coat to the doorman and slipped his mask into place before crossing the threshold proper; it was a rather simple full-face Pierrot that his father had picked up in Venice during the carnival, once upon a time, that tied behind his head with a thick black ribbon and didn't seem too terribly out of place with his otherwise completely standard dinner dress. It seemed that most of the other male patrons had opted for a similar costume, including his colleagues and Dr. Fenchurch, though the women wore a wide variety of Cleopatras and Joans of Arc, Marie-Antoinettes and Queen Elizabeths, all sweeping skirts and dazzling jewels. 

Jonathan shook hands and engaged in the usual pleasantries, complimented costumes and found that more than one of his parents' old friends were in attendance, which could have hardly been called an accident when they recognised him from his voice alone; he suspected his employer's hand in that. He made his way around the Ascalon Club's open downstairs hall, occupied centrally by guests dancing to the music of a small ensemble of skilled classical musicians, as he tried to push away the memory of his previous visits. He recalled Aloysius Dawson and Lord Redgrave, predatory Ekons and the bodies of dead Priwen lying on the ground, now gone without a trace. He wondered how much scrubbing the parquet floor had required to scour out the blood, and who'd done it. He could still smell it even though the wood seemed good as new, the scent old and faintly rotten underneath the caustic edge of disinfectant. 

Of course, that wasn't all that he could smell. Beneath the veil of whiskey and champagne, soap and high-end pomade and eau de parfum, was a much more vital smell of blood. Fresh blood, not what had seeped into the parquetry. Jonathan could very nearly taste it on the air around him, and he knew precisely whose it was. It's not that blood smells terribly distinct from one individual to the next, Jonathan finds; some is stronger than others, but mostly identification by means of scent comes to him only with familiarity. He's familiar with the scent of McCullum's blood, because he's had it on his hands more than once since they met. He's had it in his mouth, on his lips and his tongue and his _teeth_ , so when he bares them in the mirror he can see them smudged pink over white. He'd never bitten him, of course - the idea seemed so terribly brutish and reminded him more than he liked of those nights he'd spent fighting in the streets - but licking McCullum's blood from his fingers after suturing a wound seemed more like _waste not, want not_ than an act of his baser instincts. 

He excused himself from his current conversation and moved to the stairs, climbed them, let one white-gloved hand skim the banister as he made his way toward where he knew he'd find McCullum. He was leaning down against the rail overlooking the makeshift ballroom below, bent at the waist and resting on his forearms, holding an untouched champagne glass precariously over the edge though Jonathan very much doubted he'd drop it. He was wearing a very nice suit that didn't quite fit if you knew where to look - Jonathan knew where to look - and when McCullum turned his head to see who was approaching, his mask was a red patterned Harlequin. Jonathan's mouth gave a wry twist underneath his own Pierrot. With a little more coordination, Jonathan didn't doubt they could have found a Columbina to round out the act.

"You're not dancing?" Jonathan asked. He came to a stop a few feet away, a relatively safe distance where McCullum was generally concerned, and rested his hands on the railing. When McCullum didn't respond, he leaned forward just a little and mimed peering over the mezzanine to the waltzing figures below. 

"Truth be told, I'm not much of a dancer," McCullum replied. He cocked his head at him, Harlequin mask tilting, slipping a little on its ribbon though not in any more danger of falling than McCullum's champagne glass. "And you know, I've not been asked to. You'd think my invitation wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, Dr...?" 

Frankly, Jonathan very much doubted that McCullum had received an invitation. He was likely there, he surmised, to ensure the Ascalon Club's less-than-esteemed membership wasn't using a charity event for their usual nefarious means, or that Jonathan hadn't decided to rejoin their ranks; neither thing was true, of course, and Jonathan was acutely aware of the fact that he was presently the only Ekon on the premises, something of which McCullum couldn't have been ignorant himself. He'd likely watched him make his rather non-medical rounds amongst the invitees, shaking hands and declining drinks. Perhaps he'd already finished his evening's work but suspected Jonathan might mesmerise their rich guests into parting with their pounds. Jonathan had done no such thing, as it happened - Dr. Fenchurch seemed to be charming enough for both of them without the use of his Ekon wiles. And he wasn't quite sure why McCullum was acting as if he didn't know him when they both knew full well that he did, masks be damned, but he supposed two could play at that game. 

"Reid," Jonathan replied. "Dr. Jonathan Reid. Allow me to apologise for the oversight on behalf of Pembroke Hospital, Mr...?"

"McCullum. Geoffrey McCullum." He stood up straight, the champagne still in his hand, and leaned back against the rail rather more trustingly of its sturdiness than Jonathan might have in his position. "But I'm afraid I can't accept your apology, Dr. Reid." 

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Can I ask why not?"

"Well, they're very pretty words but I can't see as they rectify the situation. Can you?"

If Jonathan hadn't known better, he'd have assumed that he was being teased, but McCullum had never been one for teasing. They'd collaborated now and then over the years since their inauspicious meeting; Jonathan had had no appetite for hunting of any kind in the beginning, and had begun his work on Ekon physiology in earnest with no intention of embroiling himself in the general mess again if he could help it, but in the end it had proved entirely unavoidable. McCullum had begun visiting Pembroke, no doubt initially to ensure that Jonathan understood that he was being watched and would therefore maintain his best behaviour, but then he'd had him clean and suture a knife wound to his shoulder while he'd held a pistol to his head, just in case the blood lust was insatiable. A few wounds later, the pistol had been in McCullum's hand but not directly pointed. A few wounds after that, the pistol had remained firmly in its holster. And then, he'd asked for his help with a hunt. Not that he'd framed it that way, of course - McCullum had somehow made it sound as if he'd be doing Jonathan a favour, allowing him to prove himself, and not the other way around. 

They've known each other for two full years now, and McCullum had never teased him. Mocked him, yes. Taunted him, that went without saying. But not _teased_ him. Perhaps there was a first time for everything.

"No, I suppose I can't," Jonathan replied. "But I'm sure I can find you a suitable partner. Some of our nurses seem to be wonderful dancers." 

"That's very charitable, Dr. Reid," McCullum said, with a familiar sarcastic edge. "Making your nurses do all the hard work. But something tells me that's no different from normal."

"They do work extremely hard," Jonathan agreed. He refused to rise to the bait. "But I'm not sure what else you'd have me do, Mr. McCullum. Unless, of course, you would prefer to dance with me."

McCullum pulled himself up straighter, thus a fraction taller. He took three steps closer, entering Jonathan's space in a way he rarely did except in case of injury but entirely of his own accord, and Jonathan could smell his blood so clearly, swirling in his senses, could see it with his Ekon sight. It was a cut at the crook of one arm that he hadn't even bothered himself to dress in a sensible manner despite Jonathan's repeated, exhaustive lectures on the subject, because one day he was going to contract some infection of the blood that Jonathan could not assist in curing. It was soaking into the dressing, a spot dampening the fine fabric of what was likely a borrowed suit since McCullum never "borrowed", and he had to know that Jonathan could smell it. 

"What if that's precisely what I prefer?" McCullum asked, and Jonathan took a faintly irritated breath inside his mask. He was definitely being teased. 

"Then we should find somewhere more private," he replied. "My employer is attempting to raise funds, not cause a scandal." 

For a moment, McCullum failed to give any outward reaction; of course, Jonathan could see that inwardly, his heartbeat quickened. His blood throbbed in his carotid and Jonathan found himself staring, concentrating his attention there as if there weren't upwards of a hundred other people in the building. Jonathan wondered what kind of game McCullum believed he was playing, if he had any particular aim or if he'd come to this place entirely to needle him. He wondered if McCullum was there on behalf of Priwen, seeking intelligence on the Ascalon Club, and had seized this opportunity to use Jonathan as his alibi. He wondered what the next twist in the tale would be; there always was one where McCullum was concerned. The least he could say was his company was never dull.

When McCullum turned away, Jonathan watched him shift his mask just far enough that he could drain the champagne from his glass in one inelegant gulp, then he reached to the nearest piece of glassware-inappropriate furniture to set the empty flute aside. He walked away, farther from the staircase, farther away from prying eyes, and he tried the nearest door. It was locked, but that didn't stop him; he shielded what he did with his back turned, but Jonathan understood he was picking the lock. He made short work of it, too, and then held the door open with a grand sweep. 

"After you," McCullum said, and then gestured inside, so Jonathan went in. McCullum followed. He closed the door. He didn't lock it.

It was a library, as it turned out, the high walls all shelves with a ladder to follow them, two settees in deep red leather and a deep-pile rug on the floor that was the colour of newly-spilled blood - possibly to disguise it should it come to that. Jonathan expected McCullum to break out of his act now that they were alone together, explain that he was here to find a book or a document or some type of evidence, or indeed just begin to forage for it in the room's various cases and cupboards without a word at all. He didn't, however. He turned to Jonathan, his hands on his hips, and said, "So, do you want to lead or should I?"

"Oh, you, by all means," Jonathan said, with an expansive and vaguely flustered gesture, and McCullum approached but they absolutely did not dance in any traditional sense of the term. Jonathan let McCullum push him up against the back of the nearest settee, which was thankfully a weighty piece that didn't scrape across the floor when he leaned quite heavily against it. He let McCullum lean in close against him, so close that their masks knocked together lightly and the buttons of McCullum's waistcoat clashed with his as their midriffs pressed together. McCullum's hands went to the settee's leather upholstery at either side of Jonathan's hips and he was aware, very acutely aware, of the scent of soap and sweat and hair wax, and a splash of cheap cologne that didn't mask the fact that he was bleeding even slightly. It was bewildering. He supposed at least McCullum had the lead.

McCullum slipped his mask up to bare his mouth and pressed it in against Jonathan's throat, under the margin of his beard. His skin was so warm against Jonathan's, and the action was so sudden, that he couldn't help the sudden thrill that flooded through him at the feel of it. His own skin is so cold now, and his patients remark on it often enough that he has a reputation, but he's nonetheless become quite used to it; at that moment, however, McCullum's skin on his felt unnaturally warm. McCullum's face was flushed, he realised. His hands tightened, making the leather creak, and McCullum's teeth grazed the side of Jonathan's neck like he might decide to bite, like some mockery of what he knew Jonathan was. McCullum sucked there, hot and wet, over his pulse. And perhaps he was being goaded, perhaps this was some prelude to general humiliation or some kind of test of wills, but Jonathan couldn't help his reaction. He felt himself begin to stiffen inside his immaculate eveningwear, entirely despite himself. 

"I don't believe this is generally considered dancing," Jonathan said. His voice sounded strained, because his throat felt tight, and McCullum chuckled darkly with his mouth still pressed against his throat. 

"Maybe not," McCullum replied. He slid one hand from the settee and down between Jonathan's thighs, his palm pressing to his entirely unmistakable arousal. "But I don't think you came in here wanting to dance, Dr. Reid." 

Jonathan laughed. "No, I don't suppose I did," he said, though he had no earthly notion of what he'd come there for at all except to see exactly what McCullum's game was. McCullum's game, apparently, was curling his fingers just a fraction, so that his hand was almost but not quite wrapped around him over the top of layered fabric. "And, you know, under the circumstances, I think you'd best call me Jonathan." 

"Jonathan," McCullum said. His mouth moved against his skin and made him shiver. He leaned up to his ear and licked the lobe and then said _Jonathan_ again, all hot and thick and near. And Jonathan thought back as best he could given the circumstances, over times they'd worked together, times they'd talked, times he'd sewn up McCullum's many varied injuries and told him, "You should take better care of yourself." McCullum had laughed and told him that was sweet for a leech, almost like he really cared, and Jonathan had bitten back the utterly unbidden urge to say that actually, in a way, he did. He thought back over all the times McCullum had watched across the room as Jonathan licked his blood from his fingertips, wary but not doing a thing to stop him. 

The simple fact of the matter was that Jonathan found him attractive. Geoffrey McCullum was far from his usual type - the men with whom he'd had his brief liaisons had been very much like himself in terms of upbringing, accent, profession, style of dress, but as McCullum took a breath against his throat he had to ask himself if _type_ had not, in point of fact, been more proximity than preference. McCullum was hard-edged and prickly where the others had been polished, callused fingers and a perpetual two-day growth to his beard, and he definitely hadn't taken up reciting Keats before sitting down to dinner. He wore old clothes and spent what money he had on weaponry instead of pocket watches and Jonathan knew then, in the face of overwhelming evidence, beyond any shred of doubt, that if he hadn't had a more than passing interest then he would have disengaged from McCullum some months earlier. Which was, it seemed, precisely why he could not continue down this path. 

"Stop," he said, but his tone was decidedly weak and so he couldn't feign surprise when McCullum disregarded it. "Stop," he said again, with a little more feeling, but the only response he received was McCullum's thumb pressing down against the head of his arousal, which he has to admit was almost enough to change his mind. " _Stop_ ," he said, again, and this time McCullum paid attention; there was a note to it that, while he remained unaffected, he couldn't fail to recognise as being the force of Jonathan's will. A weaker or more unpracticed mind might have obeyed him from compulsion; perversely, McCullum obeyed because he _wasn't_ compelled. 

He stepped back and slipped his bright Harlequin mask back into place to cover up his face completely, except for his eyes. His eyes seemed sharp, or perhaps that was simply Jonathan's perception based on the stiff way that McCullum held himself, not quite angry but at a point between angry and awkwardness. He clenched his fists at his sides and Jonathan wondered if he should say something, if indeed there was anything he could say, considering his current state of obvious arousal and his exhortation to stop what they were doing despite that. He hadn't wanted to stop, of course, which was perhaps the single greatest reason he could have possibly had to do just that. He wasn't going to conduct some kind of torrid affair with Geoffrey McCullum in an Ascalon Club library under the guise of perfect strangers. He obviously shouldn't have been involving himself with Geoffrey McCullum at all, but he knew that if he did, he wouldn't accept a pseudo-anonymous encounter; it was perhaps a petulant desire on his part, but one from which he couldn't shake himself. 

Jonathan wanted to say something but he frankly had no idea what that would be. McCullum looked at him, steadily, now he'd extended the space between them to its usual distance, almost like he had similar designs on speaking. But then he turned and walked away, left the room and left Jonathan there in it without another word. He couldn't claim to be surprised by that, he supposed, given that the situation had in itself been so very unexpected. And he watched, with his Ekon senses, as McCullum slipped out of the club via the back staircase and disappeared into the night. 

Jonathan left soon after. Once his awkward situation had resolved itself, he left the library and rejoined the party; he said his farewells, with Dr. Fenchurch's blessing for having followed his direction and attended the dashed affair, and then made his way outside. The air was clearer there, despite the usual London smoke, without the blood soaked into the flooring and the ever-present fog of McCullum's blood-soaked sleeve. His intention on leaving was to walk home but he found himself turning in quite a different direction as he untied his mask and crossed the river back to Pembroke. He entered the hospital and checked in on a patient or two or three, still in his suit, then took the familiar path up to his office. 

That's precisely where he is now, with the faint but persistent knowledge his tenuous affiliation with Geoffrey McCullum has likely seen its end. 

\---

It's one of the stranger evenings he's passed in quite some time, and so he's reverted to a reliable method of passing the time: his work. 

He has results scribbled down in notebooks in handwriting that seems poorer now that he's an Ekon than it ever was during his natural life, though he will admit a certain possibility that this has more connection with impatience than with vampirism. He's eager for his research to progress so that he might produce, if not a cure, then perhaps a treatment. The majority of his kind do not choose to live on rats they stalk in the street, after all, and the repulsion he feels every time he drains another one has not decreased. And, if not for the question of blood, his existence as an Ekon wouldn't be even half as unpleasant.

He's removed his jacket and his bowtie and has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, though he's quite sure Avery would disapprove of his casual disregard for his formal attire. The truth is he can afford to purchase new shirts, but as he already donates generously to the hospital's funds and supports his mother's various charities, he can't find it in himself to feel guilt over his wealth. Every scrap of guilt he feels is still for Mary, not for his position in the social strata. So he works, bent over his workbench with his waistcoat still buttoned into place though he'd be much better served by a white lab coat than a white waistcoat. He has one, hanging from the hatstand across the room, and he thinks he'll fetch it; he pulls himself away from the microscope and turns to do so, and that's when he understands he's not alone. He can smell McCullum's blood again, drifting down the corridor outside his room like a presage of his presence and when he looks, when he really _looks_ , he can see the moving map that is his veins and arteries approaching. 

McCullum doesn't knock because he never knocks; he knows Jonathan's office is never used for seeing patients, which means there's no one's privacy to be concerned about but his, and his privacy is of no concern at all. The door opens and he steps inside, still in his almost-fitting borrowed suit. His Harlequin mask is in one hand, dangling from its deep red ribbon that's tied in a haphazard bow, and he pushes the door closed behind him. Then he sets the mask down beside Jonathan's, on the table by the hatstand. He crosses his arms over his chest; Jonathan rests his hands at his hips. He looks at him; Jonathan looks back. 

"Where did you get the mask?" Jonathan asks. 

"If you're asking if I stole it, I didn't," McCullum replies. 

"Did I say that?" 

"You didn't need to." 

Jonathan's mouth twists. "You always think the worst of me," he says. 

"Usually, I'm right." 

"Not this time." 

McCullum frowns at him, as if unsure that masks and their procurement are the only reference he's making, the only thing that Jonathan might assert that he's got wrong tonight. They're not. It isn't.

"So, did you enjoy the party?" Jonathan asks. It's a pointed question and he knows it, and he sees that point hit its target: McCullum clenches his jaw. 

"Not as much as I'd hoped to," he replies. 

"Why do you think that is? Not enough vampires for your liking?"

"Turned out you were the only one." 

"One too many, then." 

McCullum shrugs. "Maybe just enough," he says, and then he moves. He does that thing he does sometimes, moving amongst Jonathan's things, touching, turning items over in his hands and setting them back down as if the act of holding them might impart some tactile, tangible knowledge of their owner that might otherwise be overlooked. He picks up the mask and turns it over in his hands, holds it up and glances at him through the sad clown's eyes before he puts it back down on the desk. Then he picks up Jonathan's discarded bowtie, runs it through his fingers, rubs at the creases Avery will press out again once he returns it to the house. He holds it up in front of his own bowtie, still immaculately tied there at his throat, and realisation strikes Jonathan as surely as an fist against his jaw. 

"You're wearing my clothes," he says. And McCullum smiles at him, sardonically, as he throws the bowtie carelessly over one shoulder. He clearly doesn't care that it lands on the floor.

"I'm wearing your clothes," he replies. 

"What did you say about stealing?"

"I borrowed them." He glances down at his ankles, which have clearly had at least two inches severed from their hems to accommodate their difference in height; somewhere in Priwen, Jonathan supposes there must be someone whose acquaintance with a needle and thread extends further than stitching wounds. "I'll replace the trousers." 

"And the jacket?" He gestures at McCullum's bleeding arm. "The shirt?"

"They'll wash." 

"They'll stain." 

"You'll like that." And actually, Jonathan doesn't disagree with that assessment; perhaps McCullum sees that, which is why he starts pulling off his purloined jacket. He throws it over the table, on top of the masks, and the blood at the crook of his arm is rendered perfectly evident by the stark, starched white of his borrowed shirt. There's a patch there the size of Jonathan's fist, damp and feathered at the edges where the silk has wicked the blood, and he continues; McCullum unbuttons the studs down the front of the shirt and pulls it off and as he does, the dressing at his arm comes with it. He's stopped bleeding, or at least he very nearly has, but the blood on his skin hasn't had the opportunity to dry yet. It's smeared there, streaks of red making his pale skin sickly pink, and he clenches his fist as he holds his arm toward him. 

"Better?" McCullum asks. "Is this what you wanted to see?"

Jonathan doesn't want to see it, or at least he wishes to the very core of his being that he didn't. Once upon a time, years ago, in another life that seems precisely like a fairytale, he was indifferent to the sight of blood; he studied it rather avidly, as he still does now, but the quality of his avidity has changed somewhat. The small thrill he feels at the sight of McCullum's blood disgusts him. The way it makes his teeth ache turns his stomach. It's like the very first flutter of attraction, he thinks: a thud of his heart and a rush of adrenaline, a tingle in his fingers and a weakness in his knees. In this moment, he wants McCullum's blood almost as much as he wants McCullum himself, and he wants McCullum considerably.

"I think you should leave," Jonathan says. His tone is remarkably steady, he thinks, under the circumstances. 

"Don't trust yourself?"

"I don't trust _you_." 

McCullum scowls. " _You_ don't trust _me_?" he says. "That's rich. What have I done?"

"Let's not pretend we don't both know what happened earlier tonight." 

"It seemed to me like you wanted to pretend." 

"Pretending was precisely the problem." 

McCullum frowns. He looks at him and frowns, but not in the usual frustrated way, not in the usual way that Jonathan has never been sure relates to his status as an Ekon or his status in society, or a none-too-subtle mix of each. The points on which the two of them are prone to disagreement aren't precisely few or far between and the points in their respective backgrounds at which the two of them diverge are precisely as conspicuous. But McCullum looks at him now as if attempting to make sense of him and what it is he's saying. He's a quick thinker. He's a sharp, incisive man, often cuttingly so, though Jonathan has come to appreciate that sharpness. It doesn't take him long to understand. 

"So that's it," McCullum says. "I try to make it easier and go and do the opposite. Fucking awkward leech." But there's no sting to the insult, at least no more than there is usually, and Jonathan sees it's just exasperation. McCullum sighs. He shakes his head. Then he rubs the heel of his hand against the crook of his arm, presses on it, scrubs at it, and in a flash he's opened up his wound again. He's bleeding, just a thin trickle down the inside of his forearm, and he rubs his blooded hand against his bare stomach, smudging it with blood. Jonathan's senses flare. 

"Do I have to spell it out?" he says. "Jesus Christ, Reid, I thought you doctors were meant to have a brain in there." 

He doesn't require a second invitation. He surges forward, strides in close, and McCullum doesn't flinch away. He goes down on his knees and he takes McCullum's wrist in both his hands. And when he runs his tongue over McCullum's bloody forearm, he doesn't pull away. 

The wound's not enough for Jonathan to really drink from, but he supposes drinking isn't quite the point. It's enough for him to taste it, for his body to sing with it, for his heart to race and his cock to stiffen. It's enough to make him bold, to graze McCullum's forearm with the sharp points of his teeth, and McCullum's free hand finds his throat in quick response. He squeezes, his thumb hard there at his trachea though they both know he'll heal post-haste regardless, and he tells him, "Not tonight, Reid. Make do with what you've got." 

_Not tonight_ , Jonathan thinks, and it sends a surge through him just as hot as McCullum's blood is. McCullum holds out his arm and Jonathan laps at it, wetly, almost desperately, fervently, but it's not enough, it's not even nearly enough; he sucks, very likely bruising though McCullum clearly doesn't object to that, and _that's_ not enough. But it's not the blood he's lacking and he knows that very clearly from the fact that his arousal presses hard against his neatly tailored trousers. He knows it from the way it throbs and strains and so he fumbles at McCullum's trousers, _his_ trousers, only to find when he wrenches them down that the underwear beneath is also his. He laughs breathlessly against the crook of McCullum's arm, licks him there just one last time then sits back on his heels. 

"Fuck, you're a mess," McCullum says, as he looks down at him, and Jonathan's sure that he can't disagree; he feels drunk, sagging there on his knees, mouth bloody, in his formalwear. McCullum reaches out and rubs the curve of Jonathan's bottom lip, gathers the blood that he's not yet licked away and Jonathan could almost come, just like that, when McCullum dips his thumb past Jonathan's lips to let him lick the blood away from the pad of it. He turns his hand then, deliberately, and runs his thumb over the point of one of Jonathan's sharp teeth. He pricks himself. Jonathan sucks. When McCullum pulls back, shakes his head and sucks the blood from his own thumb, Jonathan actually groans out loud, albeit underneath his breath. 

Then McCullum pushes his borrowed underwear down over his hips and frees his cock. He's not small, Jonathan thinks. His erection is long and thick and hard, moist at the tip, flushed so pink with blood that Jonathan almost wishes he could bite except that he suspects McCullum would never let him near his genitalia again. McCullum rubs his fingers through the blood at the crook of his arm and then runs them over the length of his cock, utterly deliberate, a transparent invitation that Jonathan is near certain to accept. He does; he licks him, he runs the flat of his tongue over the smudges of blood, then takes the tip into his mouth. He sucks. He takes him deeper. It doesn't matter to him that he hasn't done this in years, hasn't done this since his very early twenties and he didn't exactly care for it at the time; McCullum tastes wonderful, sharp blood over salty precome, and he'd keep going till he tastes some more if left to his own devices, but McCullum pushes at his shoulder and then eases back. 

He takes off his shoes, which definitely aren't Jonathan's and look so stiff that they could be completely new. He steps out of the trousers and underwear that definitely are Jonathan's, leaving himself standing naked while Jonathan's still almost fully clothed. He doesn't seem to mind that, though; he doesn't try to cover up, just guides the tip of his cock over Jonathan's lips until he can't help but lick them in response, tasting him again. McCullum laughs and pats his face but it's not quite as condescending as it might be, Jonathan supposes, not when McCullum's next move is to walk to the bed. He sits down on the edge of it, face flushed, knees wide, erection jutting up obscenely, and Jonathan asks himself how it can possibly be that he missed this in all his evaluations of what there was between them. McCullum has let him treat his wounds. McCullum has let him set his bones and put in stitches, let him watch him overnight in case of a concussion while he slept on his creaky old hospital bed. McCullum has watched him lick his blood from his fingers without raising an objection. He wonders if, had he looked just a little closer, he would have seen his own attraction mirrored there. 

McCullum crooks one finger, beckoning. His mouth twists in what's not quite a smile but then again is not far from it. So Jonathan stands, and he lets himself be beckoned. For once, the hunter doesn't have to hunt very hard.

He doesn't undress for what happens next. McCullum pushes him down on the bed, fully dressed, shoes and all, and the rearrangement of his clothes is just as much as it takes to free his aching cock. McCullum's hand feels like a brand around him, hot, tight, stroking him, making him bite back a groan, and then McCullum straddles him. Jonathan's erection pushes there against his perineum, the friction maddeningly light. And it's all over so quickly that Jonathan's reeling mind barely catches up; McCullum strokes himself to completion as he sits there astride his hips, he slicks himself with a palmful of his own thick ejaculate, and then he pushes Jonathan inside him, past the tight rim of his hole. It's over so quickly that when McCullum rides him, all Jonathan can see is red. He sees McCullum's heart thumping hard in his chest. He sees his blood pumping hard in his veins. And then, with a lurch, with a dizzying jerk, he comes pushed up deep inside him. It's not till he feels McCullum's mouth press his, it's not till McCullum kisses him, rough and slow and certain, that he sees anything else again. His whole world is blood now, nightly, so he's grateful for the reprieve.

The bed's not made for two, and they don't try to make do with it. McCullum pulls away, grimaces, and uses a wad of cotton swabs to wipe Jonathan's come away from his hole. Jonathan chuckles, but he knows he doesn't look much better; he might have to burn his suit rather than pass it back to Avery for laundering. 

And later, once Jonathan's cleaned and dressed the cut at McCullum's arm - a cut that looks remarkably neat and well-placed for something a Skal might venture to inflict, McCullum puts his borrowed clothes back on. They suit him, Jonathan thinks, but he'd like to see them just a little better tailored. 

"Have those cleaned before you bring them back," he says. 

McCullum raises his brows and gives a not quite mocking salute. He has the mask back in his hand and he's ready to leave, and it's edging ever closer towards dawn, but he doesn't seem to be rushing; Jonathan takes that as a sign that his next advance might not be rebuffed and so he steps in close. He cups McCullum's prickly jaw. He kisses his mouth. McCullum's far from shy about the way that he leans up and kisses back, momentarily, before he pulls away again.

"I'll bring them to the house," McCullum says, and he gestures widely to the suit he's in. It's a phrase that Jonathan finds is full of promise; his own bed is much more comfortable than the one they've spent tonight in. His own home is full of things for McCullum to put his hands on, and it's possible that he might come to know him through them just a little better than he does now, as the man he is and not just the Ekon. It surprises him to know he doesn't object to that idea. 

"Leave the mask at home," Jonathan replies. 

"You like seeing my face?"

"Well, you're not much of a Harlequin." 

"You make a fucking awful clown." 

Jonathan chuckles. McCullum flashes him a wicked smile, and then he leaves. 

It's been one of the stranger nights he's had in several years. But frankly, another one can't come too soon.


End file.
